Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))

A Wet August

Nine drops of water bead the jessamine,
And nine-and-ninety smear the stones and tiles:
– ’Twas not so in that August – full-rayed, fine –
When we lived out-of-doors, sang songs, strode miles.

Or was there then no noted radiancy
Of summer? Were dun clouds, a dribbling bough,
Gilt over by the light I bore in me,
And was the waste world just the same as now?

It can have been so: yea, that threatenings
Of coming down-drip on the sunless gray,
By the then golden chances seen in things
Were wrought more bright than brightest skies to-day.

1. Afternoon Service at Mellstock
2. Tragedian to Tragedienne
3. Song to an Old Burden
4. The Supplanter
5. To an Impersonator of Rosalind

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